Quinzel and Crane
by TravellinMatt77
Summary: Harleen Quinzel is Jonathan Crane's new intern, and he's not enthusiastic about teaching someone so young and immature. And yet there's something about her that has taken hold of him, and won't let go ...
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: New Kid in Town

Jonathan Crane sat at his office desk, typing up his latest case report. Nothing terribly remarkable—just a sad, middle-aged man afraid of water. Your garden-variety hydrophobe, if you will. More of the same awaited him, for treating phobias was his specialty. And oddly, most of his patients were men. He couldn't believe that no women in Gotham suffered from crippling phobias, so he imagined that they simply didn't want to seek treatment. Perhaps if they sought treatment, they would be admitting to themselves that they were weak, and they would embarrassed to admit such weakness. What of these men, though? Did they not fear his judgment, that they were weak sissy-boys who needed his help?

No, it must have been something else. Maybe these women knew of his reputation, that of a cold, calculating man who valued results above all else and did not suffer fools lightly. And even he had to admit that he was not the most handsome man in the city, and certainly no Bruce Wayne. Far from it, in fact. With his thin, stringy brown hair brushed over his brow, his beady eyes, and thin, hooked nose, he appeared quite the monster. That, together with his advancing age and thin physique, gave him the visage akin to a gangly scarecrow. How appropriate, then, that in his spare time, he embraced that image as the Scarecrow—tormenter of innocent souls and perpetual foil to Batman, Gotham's caped crusader.

But oh, how he longed to put that behind him! For a time, his reign of terror indeed exhilarated him. There was such freedom in fully giving in to the darkness and madness within. However, the thrill never lasted long. Batman would capture him, and he'd go back to Arkham Asylum. Then he'd win release, and the process would repeat itself, over and over again. Of course, Jonathan had an advantage that other men lacked. Being an eminent psychologist, he knew how other psychologists and psychiatrists thought. He could easily convince them of his rehabilitated nature, even if such an admission was far from the truth. Now, though, he truly did want to be rehabilitated. He had long come to grips with reality. Ironically, he would never be the most feared villain in Gotham. That title would always belong to The Joker, the crazy Clown Prince of Crime.

Gah, how that man innerved him! Such ridiculous suits, such puerile jokes, such dumb pranks! And that ghastly makeup! Rumor had it that his white skin, ruby-red lips and green hair were all the consequence of an unfortunate dip in a vat of noxious chemicals. However, Jonathan did not believe this. For one thing, such chemicals would have scarred the man, had they not crippled or killed him. For another, they would not have produced the vivid colors that The Joker exhibited. Some of the man's appearance must be due to makeup. However, even he had to admit that a chemical bath would explain the man's madness. That unhinged insanity gave The Joker his undeniable charisma, which Jonathan could never hope to match. Even as a psychologist, he could not fully understand how to attain and exude charisma. So much of it came down to innate personality traits—confidence, charm, empathy (real or otherwise). Oh, he had plenty of confidence, as well as determination and a lust for power. He just couldn't bother with the rest. Perhaps it was high time he did, though. After all, what self-respecting man wished to die alone, unloved and forgotten by society?

These thoughts and more ran through his mind as he continued to type up report after report. Fear of heights. Fear of sidewalks. Fear of blah, blah, blah. Would something, anything come along to break up the monotony?

And then, as if in answer to his prayers, there was a knock at his door.

"Um, hello?" a young female voice inquired on the other side. He detected a distinct Brooklyn accent. "Dr. Crane? I'm Harleen Quinzel, your new intern. Dr. Arkham himself sent me ta see you."

"Yes, of course, come in," he said, almost dismissively. Grateful as he was for the distraction, he didn't look forward to the company of a young woman. Especially not one so inexperienced.

But then she opened the door and stepped inside, and he had to admit that he was … intrigued. Her uniform and personal style belied her obvious youth. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a matronly bun, black-framed spectacles perched atop her nose, and a white lab coat and black skirt obscured an athletic-yet-shapely figure. However, bright blue eyes gazed warily from behind those lenses, and white teeth nervously chewed on bright red lips as she clutched a clipboard to her bosom.

"No need to be so nervous, I won't bite you," Jonathan assured her with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Whew!" Harleen exclaimed with relief. "Some of the doctors here are so _strict_! Especially the women. 'Course, I think that's 'cause they're jealous of me, on account of me being so much younger than them. They shouldn't worry, though. I'm not here ta steal anyone's job. I'm just here ta learn."

 _Quite the chatterbox, this one_ , Jonathan thought as he peered at Harleen's perky, smiling face. But what he said was, "Good, then I'm eager to teach you. First, though, I'm curious about your motives. What do you hope to get out of this internship?"

"Hmmm," Harleen mused, a slender finger placed to her lips. "Well, I'm thinkin' that if I can cure my clients of their fears, then we can move on to analyzin' their hopes and dreams. Get rid of the bad, focus on the good. See, I want ta be one of those pop psychologists you see on TV, like Joyce Brothers. Except way cuter, of course."

"Of course," Jonathan said with a strained smile. Yes, he could already tell that this one would be quite the handful. "However, I should tell you right now that my goal is not to 'cure' anyone of their phobias. That would be a difficult proposition, if not impossible. My goal—our goal, I should say—is to help them manage those phobias, so they can live semblances of normal lives."

"Ah, okay," Harleen said meekly, a bit embarrassed. "Thanks for the clarification, Doctah C."

"You're … welcome," Jonathan warily replied, not too keen on Ms. Quinzel's informal nickname of him. Still, he saw no need to argue over something so trivial, so he decided to let it go. "Now, then, I expect you to arrive at my lab promptly at 8 a.m. every day, and leave no earlier than 5 p.m. No exceptions. What I don't expect is that you'll immediately adjust to my routine, so our first week will be acclimation to the work. Shadowing, asking questions, taking notes—that sort of thing. Then, once I judge you to be competent, I might consider letting you analyze patients directly, so you can get in some practice. Does that sound fair to you, Ms. Quinzel?"

"Sure thing, Doc!" she answered with enthusiasm. "I'll be the very model of professionalism. Don't ya worry your keester."

Then she pointed her finger at him as if it were the barrel of a gun, and mockingly "shot" at him. Hmph. How juvenile.

"Thank you for the reassurance," Jonathan said, not altogether convincingly. "Now, then, follow me, and I'll give you a tour of my lab."

"Okeliy-dokily!"

With that, he led her out of his office, down the hallway, and then down a flight of stairs at the end of said hall.

"Oooh, it's kinda dark in here," Harleen observed in wonder, as they descended the poorly-lit stairwell. "You might wanna ask Dr. Arkham ta invest in some lights. Quite the bright idea, wouldn'tcha say? Heh-heh."

"Yes, quite," Jonathan said, unimpressed by her little joke. "Don't worry, my lab space is adequately lit for our purposes."

"Good ta know," Harleen said, examining her current environs with the curiosity of a child. Appropriate, because she was nearly a child herself. Only twenty-two, and right out of college. However, he hoped that she didn't also possess the maturity of a child. He was a psychologist, not a baby-sitter.

They reached the basement, then walked down a shorter hallway and stopped at the third door on the right. Without fanfare, Jonathan inserted his key into the lock and turned the handle.

They entered a small observation room, with a window that spanned its length. Below the window was a long white counter, with a computer at its center for data recording purposes. Beyond the window was the examination room—a sparsely-lit, cavernous space with two metal chairs and little else.

"Kinda looks like the lab of a mad scientist," Harleen observed. "Do ya perform terrifyin' experiments in here or something?"

"You jest, but you're actually not that far off the truth," Jonathan said soberly. "My methods were once very unorthodox. Now, though, I'm sure you'll be pleased to learn that I've reformed. From now on, we'll operate strictly according to professional protocol."

"Aw, that's actually kinda a bummer," Harleen said with a child-like tilt of her head. "I'm quite the fan of bad boys, if ya catch my drift."

Jonathan gulped nervously. Should he … ? No, no, he needed to act professionally, as he had just stated. He would be the psychologist, she would be his intern, and that would be all. No tomfoolery or hanky-panky. And definitely no revelation of his unsavory past.

"I don't suppose I do," Jonathan eventually replied, "but that's neither here nor there. I expect you to remain on your best behavior, as will I. This, incidentally, is where you will be observing my treatments. I'll give you an earpiece, so I can communicate with you, and vice-versa."

"What, are ya afraid I'll disturb ya, or something?" Harleen asked, a bit peeved.

"Not at all," Jonathan patiently replied. "I just prefer my privacy, as do my patients. The fewer the direct observers, the more effective the treatment, in my experience."

"If ya say so, Doctah C.," Harleen said disappointedly. My, my—now she didn't look cute at all. Not that it mattered. He didn't need to be her friend. He needed to be her teacher, and nothing more. That would be for the best.

"I do," he said. "And with this brief little tour out of the way, I'll bid you adieu for now. See you on Monday."

"Sure, sure," Harleen said dismissively, with a little wave as she walked away. He got a brief look at her own firm keester before the door closed behind her. It was … appealing.

Jonathan vigorously shook his head. No, he couldn't give into temptation. There was too much as stake for him to give into his baser instincts. He needed to focus on his research—and the promise it would bring. With one last look at his lab, he followed Harleen out, then closed the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Peaceful, Easy Feeling

Session One

Three days later, a patient named Roberta Cochanski arrived at Jonathan Crane's laboratory. She had called the previous day to explain her case—leporiphobia, an acute fear of rabbits. That surprised him, but he was even more surprised that a woman had asked him to treat her phobia. She must have been very desperate.

A petite woman with short, brown hair tied back into a ponytail, Roberta now sat in one of the metal chairs in his lab space. She anxiously gripped the chair's arms, so tightly that he could see her veins and knuckles straining against her skin. The pupils of her brown eyes were dilated, and her lower lip quivered as he leaned forward in the opposite chair.

"You will be all right," Jonathan said, placing a gentle hand on the sleeve of her plaid shirt. "We're just going to talk. Now, when did you first realize you were deathly afraid of rabbits?"

An abrupt chortle sounded in his ear.

"Hush, Ms. Quinzel," Jonathan chided her softly. "This is no laughing matter."

"Sorry, Doc," Harleen replied, amused by the proceedings. "I just can't believe that she's afraid of little ol' bunnies. You've gotta admit that's kinda hilarious."

"No, I don't," he whispered. "Now, please be quiet."

"Okay, okay, don't get yer panties in a twist."

Jonathan ignored that last remark, and refocused his attention on Ms. Cochanski. "Please, Roberta, continue."

"W-well, I guess my earliest memory was when I was about seven, and my parents took me to the county fair," she explained. "I just remember looking at one of the rabbits in his cage, and feeling terrified."

"What do you think terrified you?"

Roberta nervously bit her lip, then hesitantly replied, "I think it might have been its beady little eyes, and its twitchy nose. The way it stared at me, it's like … it's like it was p-plotting something."

Jonathan heard more snickering emanating from his earpiece, but he ignored the rude sounds. He would reprimand Ms. Quinzel later. "Yes, I can understand how you could draw that conclusion. However, you must know that rabbits are not normally vicious. They are peaceful creatures, and are vegetarian—not carnivorous. They won't harm you."

"I … I know that," Roberta admitted, looking down as if ashamed by her fear. "But I just can't help feeling that they want to attack me. Like … they're out to get me."

Jonathan nodded. "I want to try something. Softly chant this mantra, over and over: 'Rabbits are safe. Rabbits are safe.' Can you do that for me?"

Roberta slowly closed her eyes, then began softly chanting, "Rabbits are safe. Rabbits are safe. Rabbits are safe."

"Good," Jonathan said, reaching into the manila folder on his lap. "Now, I'm going to show you a photograph of a rabbit, and I want you to continue to chant the mantra. Can you do that for me?"

Roberta nodded as she continued to chant, "Rabbits are safe. Rabbits are safe."

Jonathan withdrew the photograph, then held it up in front of him. "All right. Open your eyes."

Roberta did so, and her eyes grew wide as she looked at the photo. Her breath became more rapid as she continued to chant, "Rabbits are safe, rabbits are safe, rabbits are safe …."

As Jonathan brought the photograph slightly closer to her face, Roberta suddenly clutched her crotch of her blue jeans and squeezed her legs together—as if she were afraid that she was going to piss herself.

"Rabbits are …"

Roberta's throat seemed to tighten, as if she could no longer speak.

Jonathan immediately replaced the photo in the folder, then said, "All right, that's enough for today. Please repeat this exercise at home, taking as much time as you need. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

Roberta placed a hand over her heart to steady its beating, and replied. "Yes. Th-thank you, doctor."

She stood up, shook his hand, then walked to the laboratory door and left.

Jonathan promptly walked into the observation room, where Harleen looked at him with a foolish grin on her face.

"God, that was a riot, huh?" she said nervously. "You can't tell me you actually bought that—"

Suddenly furious, Jonathan slapped her hard across the cheek.

"What the hell?!" Harleen exclaimed, stunned by his action. "Are you psycho, or somethin'?"

"I will not have you ridiculing my patients," Jonathan spat at her. "If you cannot take your job seriously, then I suggest you leave right now and never return. Not to me, and not to any other psychologist—ever."

"Geez, okay, okay," Harleen muttered, rubbing the sore spot. "But if you ever slap me again, I'm gonna tell Dr. Arkham, and _you're_ gonna be the one not returnin'."

"Agreed," Jonathan said, looking down his nose at her. "Although you have much more to lose than I do, I will comply with your reasonable request. That will be all, Ms. Quinzel."

Harleen wrinkled her nose at him, and twisted her lips into a disgusted sneer, but said nothing as she left his laboratory. She did shoot him a mean look, though, which he supposed he deserved. Jonathan had lost his temper, and his violence was inexcusable. He would not repeat it, even if she provoked him. He prayed that she would not—he _dearly_ prayed.

Session Two

The next day, Roberta returned to Dr. Crane's laboratory. She was as nervous and twitchy as the day before—just like the rabbits that she deeply feared. Once again, Jonathan asked her to sit in the chair, while he stood in front of her. This time, however, he was not merely going to show her pictures of the bedeviling creatures. Oh, no. She would have to brave much more than that.

"Did you do your homework, as I requested?" he asked her, as she timidly looked up at him.

Her hands still gripped the arms of her chair, but not quite so tightly. Hesitantly, she replied. "Y-yes, Doctor. I looked at pictures of rabbits, and I repeated the mantra. I have to be honest with you, it helped. It _really_ helped. I almost felt ridiculous for being so afraid of them."

She let out a nervous chuckle, and he smiled. _Good_ , Jonathan thought. _Maybe this won't go as badly as I expect_. With a smile, he said, "That's great to hear. Unfortunately, it is not yet time to celebrate. Today, you must pass your greatest test so far."

Jonathan turned away from Roberta, then whispered into his headset. "Ms. Quinzel, if our patient shows any signs of great distress, I need you to respond immediately to my orders. Is that clear?"

"As crystal, Doctah C.," Harleen replied, although she sounded quite bored. No matter. Actions accounted for much more than words, and he hoped that her actions met with his satisfaction.

"Now, Ms. Cochanski, I will bring out a live rabbit—" Jonathan began.

He stopped when he noticed Roberta's face stricken with fear—pale and contorted into a terrified grimace.

"Do not worry," he assured her. "It will be in a cage, and I will not bring it directly to you. _You_ will be walking directly to _it_. This time, you will be in complete control. However, I do ask you to approach as closely as possible. Even if you begin to tremble, even if you feel faint, you press forward. Understand?"

In his ear, Harleen muttered, "Geez, Doc, ain't that kinda harsh?"

Jonathan ignored her, and waited for Roberta's answer.

"Yes, I … I understand," Roberta replied nervously.

"Good."

Jonathan turned on his heels and walked toward the far side of the room. There was a door in the wall. He opened it, then entered the adjacent room. When he returned, he wheeled out a cart, upon which sat a caged rabbit. He parked the cart to one side of the door, then stood beside it.

"Please stand, Roberta," he called out to her. "Then walk toward the cage, as slowly or as quickly as you wish."

She stood, then took one tentative step toward him. With great effort, she dragged her other foot until she had aligned it with the other.

"Good," he said with praise. "Now again."

Even from this distance, Jonathan could see a slight sheen of perspiration on her forehead; it gleamed in the light that shone from above them. She must have felt warm, because she unfastened the top three buttons of her blue blouse. As she tightly clenched her teeth, Roberta dragged one foot forward, so that her sneaker squeaked against the floor. With shallow, nervous breaths, she once again brought her other foot alongside it.

"You are doing fine," Jonathan said. "A little faster now, if you please."

She stutter-stepped forward, and began to breath more rapidly. The room was so silent, he could hear the legs of her jeans rustling together. All the while, the rabbit looked placidly forward, its nose twitching contentedly.

Breaking the silence, Harleen said, "She's looking ratha pale, Doc. Do you think maybe we oughta stop?"

"No," he whispered back. "We'll stop upon my command, and no sooner."

"Okay, but don't say I didn't warn ya."

Roberta stutter-stepped forward twice more, and nervously flicked her wrists—probably to remove excess sweat. When she was halfway across the room, her eyes grew wider, and she began to hyperventilate.

"Just ten more steps, Roberta," Jonathan urged, beckoning her forward with his hand. "I know you can do it."

Roberta nodded, then struggled to swallow. Her throat must have been very dry, and the constriction probably did not help matters one bit. She took one step, then another, and then … she began to wobble, as if off-balance. On her next step, her eyes suddenly rolled to the top of her head, and she fell to one side. Her head hit hard against the floor. She had fainted.

"Ms. Quinzel, come here quickly!" Jonathan shouted into his earpiece.

As Harleen rushed into the room, Jonathan put Roberta's legs together and elevated them about twelve inches. Hopefully, that would increase blood flow to her brain. Soon, Ms. Quinzel was at her side.

"Now, Ms. Quinzel, quickly loosen her belt and check her breathing," he ordered. "Tilt her head back if you feel it necessary, and for God's sake, put pressure on it! I'm sure it's bleeding."

Harleen did as she was told, but said, "Are you sure about this, Doc? It seems kinda weird. Couldn't we throw water on her or somethin'?"

"Absolutely not!" he shouted as Harleen lifted Roberta's chin and put her ear to the unconscious woman's mouth. "We must not provoke any adverse reaction when she wakes up!"

"All right," Harleen replied, "but I still say it's weird. Hey, I think she's breathin'!"

"Good, good," Jonathan said with relief. "Just let her wake up naturally. No sudden movements."

Harleen slowly lifted her ear from Roberta's face, then observed her as her shallow breathing began to steady. Meanwhile, Jonathan nervously wrung his hands in anticipation. Suddenly, Roberta's eyes fluttered, then opened.

"Ow, my head hurts," Roberta said. "And … and it's bleeding!"

Harleen removed her hand, and saw that it was now covered in blood. Shocked, she quickly removed her lab coat and immediately pressed it to the back of Roberta's head. Jonathan immediately removed his cell phone from his own coat pocket and dialed 9-1-1.

"Yes, there's been an emergency in my lab. A woman has fainted, and suffered serious head trauma. We're at Arkham Asylum, Room B-15. Hurry!"

He hung up, then ran into the observation room and grabbed a glass of water. Then he rushed back over to Roberta's side, and placed the glass to her lips.

"Drink this," he urged her. "You need fluids. Harleen, tie the coat around her head. As tight as you can!"

"On it, Doc!" she shouted, then immediately complied.

The minutes seemed to pass excruciatingly slowly. Roberta drank some of the water, but struggled to remain conscious.

"Stay awake, damn you!" he shouted at her, as she appeared on the verge of passing out. "I won't have you dying on me!"

"Easy, Doc, easy!" Harleen shouted back. "She's afraid enough as it is!"

Jonathan calmed himself, then comfortingly stroked Roberta's arm. The woman attempted a weak smile, but then her eyes fluttered back in her head. She had passed out.

Thankfully, no more than two minutes passed before the door slammed open and paramedics rushed into the room. Jonathan and Harleen stood aside as the gentlemen went to work, wrapping her head with bandages and carefully placing her on a gurney. Roberta remained unconscious as they quickly wheeled her out, then up the hallway to the exit.

When they were alone, Jonathan turned to Harleen and said, "Well, now that you know the true severity of my work, will you take it seriously?"

"Yeah, of course," she said, still shaken from what had just happened. Still, she fixed him with a cold, hard stare as she crossed her arms underneath her bosom. "And will ya listen to me when I try ta warn ya?"

Jonathan nodded absentmindedly. "Yes, perhaps I will."

Maybe Harleen was right. Maybe he _had_ pushed Roberta too hard. But he couldn't coddle his patients, either. No, they needed to face their fears head-on, and sometimes that meant taking extreme measures. As he had just witnessed, though, such measures couldn't be _too_ extreme. He had to find the right balance, and he had to find it quickly—before more patients ended up in mortal danger.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Take It To The Limit

Session One

Roberta Cochanski ended up recovering from her injury. She had suffered only a minor contusion, and the blood loss was not as Jonathan had initially thought. For that, he was grateful. But he would not let history repeat itself. Three days later, he stood in his lab space, and Herman Shoop sat in the chair in front of him. The balding, fat man wore an ill-fitting brown suit, and was sweating profusely. God, what a slob. But Jonathan was not here to judge the man. He was here to alleviate the man's fears. So, Jonathan reached into his lab coat and pulled out a photograph of an elevator. Then he showed it to Herman.

"How does this image make you feel, Herman?" Jonathan asked.

"N-nervous," Herman replied, his lower lip trembling as he gripped the chair's arms.

"Of course," Jonathan said. "But why are you so nervous? This is just an inanimate object. It can't hurt you, because it can't even move."

Herman gulped down his fear before speaking. "I'm afraid it will p-plummet to the basement if I get on it. Th-then the other pass … passengers will crush me to death."

Jonathan rubbed his chin as he considered the man's fear. Then he told him, "Actually, in that scenario, the fall would probably kill you. The other passengers would just add insult to injury. But never mind that. The odds of such a catastrophe are minuscule—one in 10,440,000, to be precise. Now, repeat after me. 'It is safe to ride in an elevator. It is safe to ride in an elevator.'"

"It is s-safe to ride in an elevator," Herman repeated. "It is safe to ride in an elevator."

"Good," Jonathan said in praise. "Now, repeat this mantra at home, while staring at a photograph of an elevator. Tomorrow morning, return to my lab, and Ms. Quinzel will escort you to a real elevator. Won't you, Ms. Quinzel?"

Jonathan and Herman turned to the observation window, and Harleen smiled and gave them two-thumbs up.

"You see?" Jonathan assured Herman. "We are all friends here. And friends don't let harm come to each other. I will see you tomorrow morning, then, Mr. Shoop. Bright and early."

"Yes," Herman said, nodding. "See you then."

The fat man's knees shook as he stood from his chair, and he half-stumbled toward the door. Then he reached it and ambled through. While Herman walked up the hallway, Jonathan entered the observation room and smiled at Harleen.

"I can trust you to be alone with our patient, Ms. Quinzel?" Jonathan asked.

"Sure thing, Doc," she said, flashing him a carefree smile in return. Her hands were behind her back, and she was rocking back and forth on her heels. "Herman will be as safe as an egg in a mama bird's nest. You can count on me."

"I certainly hope so," Jonathan said with a warning tone. "The man's blood will be on your hands if any ill befalls him. And you already know how that really feels, so I can assume you'll wish to avoid that outcome. Still, although I trust you, I will remain in contact with you throughout the session. You have the special glasses?"

"Right here!" Harleen chirped, pulling them out of her coat pocket and waving them back and forth.

"Good. You will wear them during the session tomorrow, as well as your earpiece. In turn, I will wear mine. You're dismissed."

With a skip in her step, Harleen exited the observation room, then the lab entirely. Jonathan took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. He was putting great faith in a mostly-untested assistant, and he dearly hoped she came through for him. Time would tell, he supposed. Time would tell.

Session Two

Harleen stood with Herman in front of an elevator. Through the feed from her glasses, Jonathan saw Harleen turn her head to look at the man. Herman was sweating profusely, but appeared to be calmer than he had been the previous day. He wore the same brown suit—out of habit or poverty, Jonathan didn't know. He also didn't particularly care. All Jonathan cared about was seeing this man overcome his deep-seated fear.

"If it'll make you feel better, you can hold my hand," Harleen offered to Herman. "I don't bite."

Herman hesitantly reached out to Harleen's pale, slender fingers, then grasped them tightly.

"Think you'll be okay gettin' on this thing?" Harleen warmly asked him.

Herman swallowed nervously, then quickly nodded.

"Hmmm," Harleen mused. "Okay, Doc, I'm about ta press the 'Up' button."

She did so, and the numbers above the elevator lit up, one by one. First four, then three, then two, then one, and finally "B" for basement. The car's doors opened, and a black male orderly in scrubs stepped out and walked up the hallway. Harleen briskly escorted Herman into the car, before the man could change his mind. They turned around to face the doors, which slowly closed upon them. Gradually, Herman began to hyperventilate.

"Up or down?" Harleen kindly asked.

"Neither," Herman gasped. "Get me out of this thing. Please!"

Harleen turned to look at him, and the man looked absolutely panicked. He fixed Harleen with a pleading stare, and she nodded.

"Okay, friend, we'll vamoose," she said, then pressed the button that opened the doors. As Herman panted beside her, Harleen led both of them out of the elevator.

"Excellent work, Ms. Quinzel," Jonathan said into his headset, as he reflexively leaned forward in his office chair. Placing his arms on his desk, he began tapping a pencil atop its surface. "You're responding well to our patient, and he to you."

"Thanks, Doctah C.," Harleen replied. "We're headed your way."

When the pair returned to Jonathan's office, he examined Herman's demeanor and complexion for any signs of lingering stress. Sweat still glistened on the man's brow, and he was still breathing heavily, but the brunt of his anxiety seemed to have passed.

"How are you feeling?" he asked Herman, as Harleen shot Herman a worried look.

"Better," Herman replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. "But being in there, it … it was just too much for me."

Jonathan steepled his fingers and placed them against his lips. Removing them, he told Herman, "When you arrive home, I want you to shut yourself into a lit, empty closet. Stay there until you begin to feel faint, then quickly exit into the adjacent room or hallway."

"And … and how will that help?" Herman asked, with a perplexed look on his face.

"Pretend the closet is an elevator, and you might be able to alleviate your fear of simply being inside of one," Jonathan suggested. "On its own, after all, an elevator is just another room. It is the cable-and-pulley system that makes it a sort of car."

Herman nodded in seeming understanding. "Okay, Doc, I'll try that. Am I done for the day?"

"Yes, you're dismissed."

Herman nodded to Harleen and said nervously, "Thank you for your help. I think I'm getting better at facing my fear."

"Glad to be of service," Harleen said with a chipper smile. "See you tomorrow."

Herman left Jonathan's office, then closed the door behind him. Curiously, Harleen stared at him until the door was shut. When she turned to look back at Jonathan, she had a puzzled look on her face.

"What?" she asked him.

"What do you mean 'what'?" he replied.

"You were lookin' at me kinda funny, like you were jealous, or somethin'," she replied warily.

"Jealous?" he asked. "No, you must have been reading too much into my expression. I was merely observing your concern for our patient. It is just concern, correct? You're not experiencing any emotional transference, or anything of the sort?"

"'Course not," Harleen said dismissively. "The guy seems sweet and all, but he's still a slob."

"I'm glad you feel that way," Jonathan said with a smile. "Keep that emotional distance from him, and you'll do just fine. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, see ya, Doc," Harleen said, in that same puzzled manner.

Jonathan watched her leave, then stared at the door even after she had closed it behind her. Jealousy? Absurd. Though, he couldn't deny that he felt something for her. A certain stirring—of what, he could not say. Perhaps he needed to observe himself as closely as he observed Harleen and Herman. Yes, that would be wise.

Session Three

As they had on the day before, Harleen and Herman stood in front of an elevator.

"Are you ready?" she asked him seriously. "'Cause if you ain't, you don't have to go through with this. You can back out any time, just say the word."

"No, I'm ready," Herman said, though he clearly looked nervous. "Let's ride this thing."

"Now you're talkin'," Harleen replied happily, and she pressed the "Up" button for the elevator.

As they waited for the car doors to open, Jonathan watched anxiously from his office. This was their biggest test yet. Herman would be pushing himself to his limit, and would depend on Harleen to support him if he did not succeed in suppressing his fear. Jonathan's confidence in her had grown in the past several days, but he still worried that she would fail in her duties.

The car doors opened, and Harleen and Herman stepped inside. They turned to face the doors as they closed in front of them, and Herman exhaled a panicky sigh. After a jolt, the car rose, one floor, then two.

"Yer doin' fine," Harleen assured Herman. "And I'm right here to catch you if anythin' happens."

Harleen turned to look at him, and the man flashed her a nervous smile. Looking down, she saw his outstretched hand, and she reached over to take it in her own.

Suddenly, the elevator car opened, and three people began walking toward it. One was a middle-aged, heavyset nurse, with her grey hair tied back in a bun. The second was a slender young man wearing a grey business suit and navy blue tie. The third was a thickly-built, black male orderly (though not the one from the day prior; this one was older, and his scalp was shaved completely bare). After the three new passengers had stepped inside, the doors closed, and the car began to rise once more.

"If you want, we can get off at the next floor," Harleen offered. "I imagine this must be nerve-wrackin' for ya."

"No, I want to ride this out," Herman said, then chuckled. "Literally."

Jonathan couldn't decide if the man was brave or foolish. Perhaps a bit of both. But as he continued to watch through Harleen's lenses, he could see that Herman was breathing more heavily, and the man's face had begun to pale. The elevator opened, and the other passengers exited the car. Only Harleen and Herman remained. The doors closed, and the car began its descent back to the basement. Herman appeared to be calming down, and emitted a relieved laugh as he wiped his sweaty brow.

"You did it!" Harleen exclaimed happily. "I'm proud of ya, pal."

"Thanks," Herman said with a nervous smile.

But then the man's eyes rolled back into his head, and he fainted.

Harleen acted swiftly. As the man began to fall, she grabbed him underneath his armpits and gently lowered him to the floor. Then she immediately pressed the button for the building's first level. The elevator car slowed as it approached that level, and then the doors opened. With great effort, Harleen grabbed Herman's legs and dragged him out of the elevator. A shocked young nurse spotted the pair, and came rushing over.

"My God, is he all right?" she asked, her brown eyes wide with fear. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Maybe get a cold washcloth or somethin'?" Harleen replied, a bit unsure. "I think I can wake him up."

"Okay, I'll be right back."

With that promise, the nurse ran back up the hallway, her shoulder-length brown hair swaying behind her. Harleen quickly grasped Herman's legs and raised them to a ninety-degree angle, so the blood could flow more quickly back to his brain. Jonathan felt himself on edge as the minutes passed with excruciating slowness. Finally, Herman's eyes fluttered open. The nurse returned a minute later, clutching a damp washcloth.

"Thank you," Harleen told her as she snatched the cloth from the nurse's hand. The nurse nodded, then departed.

Harleen pressed the cloth to Herman's forehead as the man began to adjust to his new surroundings.

"What happened?" he asked, disoriented. "I fainted, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but don't beat yerself up over it," Harleen urged him. "It happens to the best of us."

Herman nodded, even though Harleen had clearly lied to him. Still, it was an acceptable lie, because it put the man's mind at ease. Right then, that was what he needed. After a short while, Herman stood, and Harleen escorted him to the stairs that led down into the basement. Wise decision. Jonathan was sure that Herman had had enough of elevators for one day.

When Harleen and Herman arrived in Jonathan's office, Jonathan rose from his chair and walked over with an extended hand.

"Congratulations, Mr. Shoop," Jonathan said as he tightly gripped Herman's hand between both of his own. "You far exceeded my expectations. More importantly, I am sure that you exceeded your own, as well."

"Yes, thank you, Doctor Crane," Herman said with relief, then turned to smile at Harleen. "And thank _you_."

"Ah, it was nothin'," Harleen demurred with a wave of her hand, as Herman stared at her like a love-struck idiot. "I was just doin' my job."

"Maybe, but I couldn't have gotten through that without you," Herman insisted. "You're an _angel_."

"Oh, _stop_ ," Harleen said bashfully, and she was blushing red. Certainly she was not attracted to this man? No, she had called him a slob on the day prior, and Jonathan was sure that was still the case. Perhaps she simply enjoyed the man's adoration. That would have made much more sense.

Herman bowed to them both, then left Jonathan's office. Once the door cleared behind him, Jonathan cleared his throat.

"Good work, Ms. Quinzel," he said to Harleen, and she responded with grateful smile. "You are quickly becoming a valuable assistant to my work."

"You're welcome, Doc," Harleen replied, but then a nervous pall suddenly fell over her face. "But speakin' of assisting, Dr. Arkham offered me the opportunity to interview The Joker. And I've accepted."

A surge of rage suddenly swelled up within Jonathan's body. His face contorted in anger, he shouted, "You _what_?!"

"Hey, calm down, Doc," Harleen urged with a nervous chuckle. "It's just a meetin', and a supervised one at that. It's not like we're going on a _date_ , or nothin'."

"You might as well be," Jonathan replied with restrained anger. "That man's charisma can win over even the strongest of minds and hearts. I urge—no, I _insist_ —that you proceed with utmost caution. You must _not_ smile at his compliments. You must _not_ laugh at his jokes. If you let your guard down for even a second, he will exploit that weakness. And then he will have you. And then _I_ will have lost you—forever."

"Geez, dramatic much?" Harleen replied with disgust. "Anyway, you ain't my father. You can't tell me what to do. I'm meetin' him, whether you like it or not."

"Please, consider my warning," Jonathan pleaded, an almost desperate note to his voice. "That's all I ask."

"Whatever," Harleen said flippantly. Then she turned on her heels and walked out of his office, closing the door behind her.

The fool. The stupid, overconfident fool. She had no idea what she was about to face. But she would soon find out. And this time, Jonathan wouldn't be around to help her.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: Witchy Woman

Two days later, another client arrived in Dr. Crane's office. He was a most unusual client, at that. For you see, his fear was gynophobia—an intense fear of _women_. Naturally, Jonathan would need to expose this man to a mature woman, which made this the perfect job for Harleen.

Louie Gershowitz sat in a chair in the middle of Jonathan's lab, sweating nervously through the armpits of his green dress shirt. Looking at him from the observation room, Jonathan noted that he was a pleasant-looking man—fit, with a round face and neatly-combed brown hair.

As the man loosened his red tie, Jonathan spoke to him over the intercom, "Just relax, Mr. Gershowitz. I don't intend to hurt you, and neither does my assistant. She'll be here shortly."

A few moments passed, and then the door opened at the other end of the room. Harleen stepped out wearing her usual work uniform of lab coat, white blouse, and black skirt. Her hair was once again tied back into a conservative bun, and she was wearing her glasses. Really, she looked as non-threatening and unsexy as possible. However, Louie instantly blanched at the sight of her, and scooted his chair away as she walked toward him.

"Really, am I all that terrifyin'?" Harleen asked him in amusement, as she gestured with an open palm. "What about me scares you so much?"

"It's not you, i-it's," Louie stuttered. "You see, my previous therapist thinks I'm afraid of women because my mom beat me when I was a kid. Makes me not trust any of them. I'm afraid they'll b-beat me, too."

"Relax, I'm not gonna beat ya," Harleen told him, standing in place. "What can I do to ease your mind, Mr. Gershowitz?"

"I-I don't know," Louie said, rubbing his neck. "Maybe you can change your clothes? So you look less … womanly?"

"Gee, thanks," Harleen said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "But you _have_ given me an idea. Wait a sec, and I'll be right back."

With that promise, Harleen turned around and walked out of the lab. As soon as she closed the door behind her, Louie let out a relieved sigh and slumped down in his chair. Meanwhile, Jonathan's mind drifted to Harleen. What exactly was she playing at? He had a notion, but surely she wouldn't go there … would she?

All told, Harleen took much more than a second to return. Twelve minutes, to be precise. But when she opened the door into Jonathan's lab, she looked much like he had expected. She was still wearing her white blouse, but had removed her glasses and lab coat and changed into a navy blue skirt. White socks and black saddle-shoes now adorned her feet, and her blond hair was tied into two braided ponytails. Most tellingly, she seemed to have bound her breasts, because her chest was rather flat. She slowly approached Louie, and he suddenly seemed less nervous around her. In fact, he looked a bit … aroused. So that was her game. Jonathan leaned forward in his chair, eager to see how this would play out.

"Is this better?" Harleen cooed seductively, as she reached Louie. Placing a gentle hand on his knee, she added, "Do I still make you nervous?"

"Not … not as much?" Louie said hesitantly, with a slight chuckle.

"That's good ta hear," Harleen said, as she straddled his lap and put her hands on his chest. "Now, what do you want to _do_ to me?"

"Do?" Louie asked excitedly, as Harleen caressed his cheek. "Gee, I don't know …"

"Oh, c'mon, you can be honest with me, sweetums," she said flirtily. "Your mouth may not have the words, but …"

Suddenly, she slid her hand to his groin, and tightly grabbed his genitals.

"Aaah!" Louie screamed, no doubt in pain.

"But this says otherwise, ya creep!" Harleen yelled at him. "So, you get off on screwin' little girls? Is that it?"

"N-no!" he pleaded. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Furious, Jonathan pushed the button for the intercom and yelled, "That's enough! Ms. Quinzel, I order you to unhand this man, right this moment!"

"Sure thing, Doctah C.," she replied airily, then stood up and patted Louie's shoulder. To Louie, she added, "I'm glad we had this little chat."

A shaken Louie trembled in his chair as Harleen skipped toward the observation room. Shortly, she had reached it, then opened the door and stepped inside.

Once the door was closed behind her, Jonathan shouted, "What the hell was that?!"

"Just somethin' Mistah J taught me," Harleen replied. "He said I should use my feminine charm as a weapon, and I thought it made perfect sense."

"Mister J?" Jonathan asked incredulously. "Did … did The _Joker_ put you up to this?"

"He didn't put me up to _anythin'_ ," Harleen said innocently, as if to play him for a fool. "It was my own idea. I figured if I could make Louie afraid of little girls, then he wouldn't be afraid of women no more. Smart thinkin', right?"

"Wrong!" Jonathan shouted. "That was highly unprofessional, and you're not to do anything like it again!"

"Well, I thought it was a good idea," Harleen said, with proper chagrin. "And anyway, I don't have to stand here and listen to you talk ta me like that. If you don't appreciate my efforts here, then I'll hook up with someone else—literally."

"You mean The Joker, don't you?" Jonathan asked, deeply concerned. "I urge you to reconsider, Harleen. He doesn't care for you. Once he no longer has any use for your services, he'll toss you aside like garbage. _All_ he cares about are himself, chaos and power, in that order."

"You're just sayin' that because you're jealous," Harleen sniffed, seemingly hurt by Jonathan's accusations. "You don't know him like I do. He _does_ care for me. More than you ever will!"

"If that's what you really believe, then go to him," Jonathan said calmly, though his inner emotions were in turmoil. "But mark my words. You'll come to regret your decision. Maybe you'll stay by his side, but you won't be happy. You'll _never_ be happy with him."

"Ha!" Harleen barked with amusement. "That's where you're wrong, pal. I'm already happy with him—happier than I've ever been in my life!"

"Then farewell, Harleen," Jonathan said. "I hope you have a wonderful life together."

"I will," Harleen said, turning to leave. But with her hand on the doorknob, she looked over her shoulder and added, "Oh, and one more thing. My name's not Harleen Quinzel anymore. It's Harley Quinn. Don't you forget it!"

With that shouted warning, "Harley" flung open the door, then walked through it and slammed it shut behind her.

Behind Jonathan, Louie nervously asked, "Doctor Crane, is my session over now?"

"Yes, you may leave," Jonathan said, irritated and distracted.

So, as the poor sod stood up from his chair and walked to the exit, Jonathan fumed. The Joker had won again. However, Jonathan knew that he was right. Harleen would not be happy. Especially not as "Harley Quinn", The Joker's sidekick. If only she had stayed with Jonathan, she could have become her own woman someday. Now that opportunity would be lost forever. No … what was he thinking? He would only lose her if he surrendered her to The Joker. He needed to fight for her. However, he couldn't do that as Jonathan Crane. In order to fight a costumed villain, he would have to become one once more. He would have to become … The Scarecrow. 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: Life in the Fast Lane

First, Jonathan needed to find The Joker. _He_ would lead him to Harleen. But where to look first? Unfortunately, Jonathan lacked the innate detective skills of the Caped Crusader. So, he would just have to pound the pavement, interrogating The Joker's known former associates. And he had a good idea where to start.

Located in Gotham's Otisburg neighborhood, The Stacked Deck is a hangout for the most notorious of criminals. Given that The Joker's Funhouse is also located in Otisburg, it was easy for Jonathan to deduce that this nightclub was frequented by many of the henchmen of the Clown Prince of Crime—past, present, and future. When he entered, cigarette and cigar smoke drifted through the air like fog, as did the sounds of conversation and clattering billiard balls. Jonathan—dressed as The Scarecrow—strolled past the bar, dining tables, and billiard tables, all the way to the back. That is where the card games occurred, and that is where he suspected to find a lead. Wisely, the nightclub patrons cleared a path for him as he approached. On the stage near the card tables, a jazz trio played a somber melody, the sax and trumpet wailing like a broken-hearted man. Appropriate, for such a glum city. At the nearest card table, the heavyset thugs were engrossed in a game of poker—too engrossed to see Jonathan approach. He skulked around them, observing their cards. A pair of kings, three-fifths of a straight, a flush … ah. Reaching over the shoulder of a burly white male wearing a putrid green tanktop, he plucked a card from his hands.

"Hey!" the unshaven galoot exclaimed, his lower lip protruding in a pout. "What's the big idea?"

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Jonathan said, flipping the card to face them, "but has anyone seen … this man?"

The card—of course—was the Joker. Three of the men vigorously shook their heads, their faces pale with fear. Not of him, no doubt, but of the man in question. A fourth man remained silent. However, the fifth—a weasely-looking hoodlum with a big nose—flashed him a toothy grin.

"Yeah, I seen him," the hood said in a nasally voice, raising the brim of his newsboy cap. "He's been spending a lot of time in The Bowery, expanding his influence. Maybe hitting up some hookers, too, I don't know."

"So quick to betray him, eh?" Jonathan mused aloud. "I'm surprised."

"Hey, I've got no loyalty to that clown," the hood replied. "Guy stiffed me out of a thousand bucks."

"Yes, he does tend to renege on deals," Jonathan said. "Anyway, thank you for your time."

Jonathan tipped his wide-brimmed hat, then turned to walk away.

"Hey, when you see him, kick his ass for me, will ya?" the hood asked loudly.

"With pleasure," Jonathan answered, looking over his shoulder.

Then he was out the door, on his way to find The Joker—and more importantly, Harleen.

Quickly, Jonathan returned to his car and got in. It was an older car—a 1976 Pontiac Firebird, black, with the titular creature outlined in yellow on the hood—but a reliable one. He revved up the engine, then floored the gas pedal and tore down the street like a bat out of hell. The car roared down the pavement as Jonathan raced to his destination, wasting no time. Not even for traffic lights. He swerved away from oncoming traffic, and around innocent pedestrians (well, except for that poor old man who was just too slow in crossing the street. He should have been quicker, hmm?). Soon, he was there. The neighborhood looked very run-down—crumbling brick buildings, paint peeling off of fences, tattered clothes hung up to dry and fluttering in the breeze. Jonathan slowed his car, then cruised down the narrow avenue as he surveyed his surroundings. There, in one alley, were two young thugs mugging a timid young co-ed. There, in another, was a trenchcoated hoodlum selling drugs to an eager male buyer. Crime, everywhere he looked—but not the criminal he sought. Finally, at the end of one road, he saw him—a green-haired main in a pin-striped purple suit, turning into an alley. With him was a buxom young woman wearing a harlequin costume. A domino mask and white makeup hid her face, but he'd recognize that body anywhere. It was none other than Harleen Quinzel—or Harley Quinn, as she now preferred to call herself.

Jonathan quickly drove to the end of the road, then parked at the alley entrance and exited his car. The Joker and Harley ran upon spotting him, and he gave chase.

"Stop!" he shouted, but of course they blatantly ignored his command. "Don't make me hurt you!"

"Hahaha!" The Joker laughed as he neared the end of the alley. "And what can _you_ do, you straw-brained nincompoop?"

"This!" Jonathan shouted, then pulled a fear-gas grenade out of his pocket, pulled the pin, and chucked it at the pair of costumed crooks.

It exploded, releasing a large cloud of gas that quickly engulfed them. Due to his peerless intuition, The Joker had the foresight to cover his nose and mouth with a gas mask. Unfortunately, Harley was not as lucky. With a coughing fit, she froze in her tracks, doubled over in pain. Her coughing subsided as the gas began to dissipate, but Jonathan knew that the true terror was just beginning.

"NO!" Harleen cried in panic. "DON'T LEAVE ME! I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT! JUST DON'T LEAVE ME!"

The Joker's green eyes stared at Harley in confusion over the rim of his mask. His voice muffled by the device, he shouted, "What are you going on about, you ditzy dame? Pull yourself together, so we can vamoose, before this freakazoid can pull another crazy stunt!"

"She can't hear you, you mad clown!" Jonathan shouted back. "Her mind is lost in her fear! Even _I_ can't reach her now!"

"And they say _I'm_ crazy!" The Joker exclaimed incredulously. "Just how long will she be in this incapacitated state?"

"With a dose as large as that?" Jonathan mused aloud. "Minutes. Maybe even hours."

"Well, then it's just too bad that I can't stick around until she snaps out of it!" The Joker shouted with lunatic joy. "Take care of the bubble-headed bimbo for me, will you? It's been a hoot, but now I must scoot! Hahaha! I kill me! Ta-ta!"

With a mannered bow, he dashed to the end of the alley and into the back of a waiting purple sedan. As Jonathan's shocked eyes watched, The Joker closed the door behind him, and the car sped off.

Damn, he meant to hit The Joker, not Harleen! She just was just an innocent bystander. Well, not innocent, but not as guilty as _him_. As Jonathan watched with pity, Harley collapsed to her knees, then dropped to the pavement and curled into a ball.

"Don't leave … don't leave … don't leave," she began to mutter, over and over again.

So, that was her greatest fear—abandonment. If that was the case, then he would not abandon her. Not then, not ever.

Jonathan kneeled by her side, then pulled off her cowl and began to stroke her hair.

"I'm here for you, Harleen," he said softly. "You no longer have anything to fear. I won't leave you."

Slowly, her breathing began to calm, but she continued to tremble, shaking as if she were a puppy. No, the terror wouldn't subside for quite some time. Jonathan did this to her, so she was now his responsibility. He hoped that she wouldn't hate him too much for what he had done, but knew they would have a long road ahead of them. That is, if she decided to remain by his side, and not run off again with The Joker—the very man who had abandoned her just minutes earlier. Jonathan dearly hoped that she chose him, for both their sakes. If she left him, he would let her go, but he knew that she would be miserable, and he knew that he would have lost his most promising protégé. All because he needed to be in control. That was perhaps the biggest joke of all.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six: The Long Run

Once Harleen began to become more lucid, Jonathan injected her with twenty-five milligrams of Thorazine. That would calm her enough during the ride back to Arkham, and prevent her from needlessly attacking him. He carefully supported her with one arm as they walked back to his car, then opened the passenger side and gently placed her in the seat. After strapping her in, he closed the door. Then he got in on his side, did likewise, and set off.

Back at his office, he set Harleen on a cot, strapped her down, and threw a blanket on her. For added comfort, he placed a soft pillow underneath her head. Jonathan very much hoped that she would rest easily, and not be too upset when she woke up. He hated that he had done this to her, and now could only care for her as she healed from her mental injury. Unfortunately, only time would tell if that care would win her back to his side.

Two hours later, as he read the notes from his latest case file, Jonathan heard Harleen stirring behind him.

"Whuh … where am I?" she asked sleepily, attempting to sit up. Upon opening her eyes and looking at him, she added, "Jonathan?"

"Yes, I'm here," he confirmed. "Please don't be upset with me. I know I made a big mistake, but my intentions were pure. I only wanted to help you."

"Where's Mistah J? What did you do to him?!"

Jonathan put up his hands in a placating gesture, since now Harleen was wild-eyed and furious. "I didn't do anything to him. He escaped my clutches as soon as I had incapacitated you with my fear gas. I—"

"You bastard!" she shouted, struggling against her restraints. "I loved him! I'll _kill_ you for this!"

"And then where will you be?!" Jonathan shouted back. "You'll be all alone! The Joker abandoned you, Harleen! He cares nothing for you. If he had cared about you, he would have taken you with him. Instead, he left you with me, and I brought you back here, safe and sound. And _this_ is the thanks I receive?"

Harleen panted heavily, but she had stopped yelling. Shaking her head to clear the remaining daze, she admitted, "You're right. Thank you for taking care of me. But now I'm feeling better, so please get these damn restraints off of me!"

She began struggling again, and he could only sigh with disappointment. Still so immature. Calmly, he asked, "And you promise not to attack me?"

"Yes, I won't attack you," she said. "In fact, I don't want anything more to do with you. We're done."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Jonathan said, pushing his chair back from his desk and standing up. "I think we could have accomplished great things together."

"Maybe so," Harleen mused, as Jonathan walked over to the cot, tossed aside the blanket, and began removing the restraints. "But me and MIstah J are gonna accomplish greater."

"Well, we'll just have to see, won't we?" he replied, removing the final restraint. "There. Now you're free to go."

Wordlessly, Harleen stood up, retrieved her cowl and mask from where Jonathan had laid them beside the cot, and pulled them back over her head. Then she walked over to the door, opened it, and left his office. She was gone from his life forever. Or so he thought.

One month passed. Jonathan Crane buried himself in his work, attempting to treat patients' phobias. They ran the gamut from hydrophobia (fear of water) to geliophobia (fear of laughter), but he considered all of them to be equally serious. He had hoped that such intense devotion would relieve him of his sadness at losing Harleen. However, he still found himself thinking about her often. Perhaps he _was_ in love with her, however much he would like to deny it. Perhaps he always _would_ be.

Then, one day, Jonathan heard a knock at the door. He assumed it was just another patient, but when the door opened … there was Harleen. At the same time, it wasn't her at all. She was wearing another costume, as she had when she was Harley Quinn. Of course, this one was quite different. The red and black color scheme was the same, as was the face, but the clothes and hair were much changed. Instead of a jester suit, she wore a regal ball gown, red with black spades. A spade also capped the golden scepter that she held in her right hand. Her hair, meanwhile, seemed to be starched to the consistency of straw, and tied into two ponytails that jutted up and away from her head. But what he most noticed was her eyes, crazed yet imbued with intense passion.

"Har … Harleen," he stuttered, shocked by her appearance. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"I thought so, too," she said coolly, as if she still didn't quite trust him. "But things have changed. Mistah J just dumped me."

"How … awful," he said, lying with great compassion.

"Nah, it's just the opposite," Harleen said, with a joyful yet manic smile. "I can see more clearly than ever now. You were right about him. He only wanted to use me as muscle … or bait. I was fine with that for a while, because the mayhem was fun, and we always had _fun_ afterwards, if you catch my drift. But our most recent heist went sour. The coppers showed up at the bank, and Mistah J stuck me with the loot. Oh, I took them out with my mallet, and I escaped by somersaulting and backflipping out of the vault. When I tried to catch up with him, though, back at our hideout, he wasn't there. And when I asked one of his henchmen where he'd gone, the man told me he didn't know. So Mistah J was gone, without a trace. He'd abandoned me, threw me to the wolves! At first, I was sad, then furious. But now it's almost a relief. He'd shown me his true colors … and they weren't purple and green. He's _not_ Mistah J to me anymore. He's just a yellow-bellied coward who can't face a real relationship. You, on the other hand …"

"Yes?" Jonathan asked eagerly. "What about me?"

"I'm ready to team up with you, but one two conditions," she said sternly, holding up the first finger. "One, we're equal partners. None of this sidekick crap, and no condescension. I'm not your student any longer. I've got some experience under my belt, and I'm itchin' for more. Two, we don't play by the book. It's way more fun being bad, don't ya think?"

The way she looked at Jonathan, with those crazed eyes … he had to admit he was a bit frightened. But he told her confidently, "Yes, yes, of course. To tell you the truth, I was beginning to get bored by procedure. Hampered by rules and regulations."

"Exactly!" Harleen exclaimed triumphantly. "So let's throw 'em all out! Let's conduct experiments on our terms, not theirs! And let's go after the big fish, not the small fry! Whaddya say?"

He thought it over for a few seconds, while he observed her enthusiasm. She was breathing rapidly, and her smile was hopeful. But this would mean going back to a life of crime, and he would put himself at risk of persecution by the public … and of capture by the Batman. On the other hand, this time he wouldn't be alone. And this time, he would do better. Or rather, _they_ would.

"All right, I'm in," Jonathan said with a devious smile. "But if I'm The Scarecrow, then would should I call you, my dear?"

With a satisfied grin and a mischievous twinkle in her eye, she replied, "You can call me … Ms. Queen."

To be continued in … THE SCARECROW AND MS. QUEEN!


End file.
